Mr. Morbid and the Little Sage, Advent musings, Giveaway shawl finally done and will be in the mail soon

Most days our children remember their little baby brother, who died in May, with cheerful thoughts. They bring George into conversation, imagining what it would be like had he lived and thinking about including him in things like decorating the house or drawing pictures. It’s rare for them to cry when they mention him now, as they did over the summer and even into early autumn.

The two oldest boys regularly leaf through the Baby George scrapbook, which has a place of honour in our dining room. They still pick up and read the We were going to have a baby but we had an angel instead book. They always include George in their nightly prayers and light a candle for him at church every week.

Our five-year-old boy is fixated on death now, causes and means of death becoming almost an obsession. I don’t know whether to be alarmed or maybe start dressing him as a baby Goth, this little mini-man of ours. He had a very difficult time understanding death and the finality of it at the time our baby was stillborn at full-term, relentlessly asking over and over how his baby brother died. He needed to hear why the baby was dead countless times in the months right after George died, which could be at times excruciating not only for me but for his older brothers who started to get really upset when the repetition started: “We’ve been OVER this!!” or “Why do you want to know that AGAIN?!”

I’ve got to say that our little death-obsessed kindergarten boy is an interesting addition to any social function. With bat-like hearing and a steely gaze that will not be put off, he pounces on any mention of death or loved ones passing, immediately offering that his baby brother died and how before asking a bazillion questions as to how others passed on from this life. He can’t get enough of the details. Photos of grandparents? He’ll ask if they’re living or dead, and if they’ve died, he interrogates like a seasoned journalist. Baby born? He’ll ask if it lived. Mention of a death? Hoo ha does this boy know uncomfortable questions to throw at the bereaved. Other deceased family members of ours? He's got the facts committed to memory now and will rattle off how the great-grans and others died.

I’m hoping it’s a phase.

And then there’s our wee girl. The big sister without her baby on earth, who will now that I think of it sometimes still well up with tears when she tells me she wanted to change her baby’s diapers but never got to help me with that. She amazes me sometimes, how she has come to figure out death and its meaning for her at the tender age of three.

We were at a local playgroup recently and she was playing with the doctor kit, which delights her no end. Another little girl and her mother joined in, helping us examine and treat sick dollies. The other mother said to the girls, “Oh, and hospitals make people better, don’t they? Yes, they do. All better.” My daughter sat back and looked at this other mother quietly, her blue eyes solemn. I watched her as she thought about what had been said. I could see that she was carefully thinking this statement over.

“No. Not always,” she said quietly. Not argumentatively and without any feeling really. She was stating this fact to set the record straight.

“Why sure they do,” gushed the other mother. “Doctors and nurses fix people and make them better!”

My little blue-eyed preschooler met the woman's gaze and said matter-of-factly, “No, not always. Our baby George was born at the hospital and they couldn’t fix him. He died. He wasn’t breathing and they couldn’t help him. He's dead and in heaven. He won't ever live with us.”

Now that, my friends, is a conversation stopper. As sad as it is that my little girl doesn’t have a happy belief that doctors and nurses can fix everyone and cure everything, I’m comforted that she does understand that our baby is gone and not coming back. It’s hard to know what these little surviving siblings comprehend, so to get a glimpse and see that they seem to be coping and adjusting is reassuring that we’ve done something right as we’ve tried to help them understand the stillbirth of their baby brother.

Even if events like this, the morbid next-older brother, and the mumma who is very quick to tears make us the wet blanket trio of dark news and sad tidings to avoid at free community drop-in playgroups.

:: ::

Here is a beautiful advent wreath my oldest son made at art club recently:



It’s such a pretty way to mark the wait for Christmas: Hope. Peace. Joy. Love.

Four weeks in the liturgical year to prepare me for Christmas when really these are four things I long to find in balance in my life again. Is that possible after baby loss??

:: ::

I finally finished the Stolen Moments Wrap for the 25 Day Giveaway. My oldest boy took photos of it draped on my shoulders so I could share it:





It will be packaged up soon and on its way for sweet Margaret at She’s Come Undone. There was one slight glitter glue incident with it…one of my daughter’s crafts from playgroup got, erm, really stuck to the shawl in one spot. I cannot get it off. But gold glitter just accents black wool, right????